


In the Cupboard of My Heart

by stardust_made



Series: The Oxford Suite [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Art, M/M, Remix, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Slash, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft remembers the last time he and Sherlock were together. Set a few months after Sherlock's start at Oxford university.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Cupboard of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Chemistry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/346108) by [thinkpink20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20). 



> "Chemistry" was the first story of thinkpinks20 that I ever read and I still remember how sexy and sharp I found the writing, how impressed I was with the dialogue, and how the authentic characterisation made me blush more than any explicit paragraphs. I hope that even if you don't enjoy my story, you will enjoy hers!

~~~

  
Mycroft doesn’t turn around. Their house, the big tree by the front door, the window of Mycroft’s bedroom, his brother—who hid so they couldn’t say goodbye—they’re all disappearing behind Mycroft’s back as the car speeds up and takes him away and to London. In the next few weeks he will be able to recall mentally every single detail of every moment he spent with Sherlock in the last four days.  
  
Mycroft very much doubts that Sherlock understands the luxury of four days off in Mycroft’s position, even when taken around Christmas. He tried to explain it to him, but Sherlock took it as a juicy opportunity to mock Mycroft’s “ridiculously overblown sense of self-importance” and went on to draw parallels with other overblown parts of Mycroft.  
  
Mycroft also very much doubts that Sherlock understands how his own first holiday after he started his studies at Oxford was connected to the number of days Mycroft spent at home. It doubled them, but on _that_ he didn’t enlighten Sherlock.  
  
***  
  
A month later and Mycroft begins to lose some minor points, but overall his memories are impressively packed with substance. For instance, he remembers every last detail of the experiments Sherlock conducted with the new chemistry set Mycroft gave him as a Christmas present—right to the very colour and texture of that unfortunate singed curl by Sherlock’s ear. He remembers the night before the exchange of gifts; there are whole sentences that Mycroft can recite word for word.  
  
 _Sherlock is shuffling on Mycroft’s bed, as if testing it._  
  
"You always did have the better bed," he mutters, bouncing a little.  
  
"Yes, it's blatant favouritism," Mycroft says with some distracted sarcasm. He is only half-pretending to be absorbed with the document he’s been reading.  
  
Sherlock glances up at him.  
  
"So when will you be finished?"  
  
It’s the closest thing to his brother begging.  
  
"Shortly." Mycroft turns a page. "Besides, they won't be asleep yet."  
  
"They are," Sherlock replies. "I checked."  
  
Mycroft wonders if Sherlock realizes how obvious his eagerness is.  
  
"Both of them?"Mycroft asks.  
  
Sherlock huffs, offended at the implied distrust. "Possibly father was still reading."  
  
Evidently the distrust was justified. Mycroft glances down at Sherlock. "Possibly?"  
  
"Fine, definitely."  
  
Mycroft goes back to his papers. "He has sharp hearing."  
  
"I promise not to continue a loud narration of what's going on then." Sherlock rolls his eyes. He is a lean, petulant streak of confused desire and crackling impatience—Mycroft can feel it radiating from his skin. Sherlock twitches on the bed and his foot grazes Mycroft's calf. It’s not intentional, because Sherlock moves away immediately—God forbid Mycroft think Sherlock sought contact with him! Mycroft sighs inwardly and chases after the touch, re-establishes contact. Sherlock silently admits to it this time. For a minute or two, it seems to calm him.  
  
For a minute or two.  
  
"I hate Christmas," he mutters.  
  
"Yes," Mycroft drags, turning his final page. "You make that obvious every year."  
  
"Archaic nonsense."  
  
"Quite."  
  
"Childish excuse for relatives to gather and annoy one another."  
  
The sum total of relatives who Sherlock has annoyed at various family gatherings over the years is astonishingly high compared to that of relatives who have ever really annoyed him. But Mycroft won’t quibble. He’s quite aware he is the remark’s target and knows its goal, too. He succumbs.  
  
"Annoying you, am I?" he asks, frowning at the page and underlining a whole short paragraph.  
  
"Perpetually."  
  
Mycroft is going to finish the document as a matter of principal. The balance of power between the two of them has to be preserved at all cost, because Sherlock is like black satin left in the sun: He will absorb all light, take and take and take, until he fades. He has no sense of his own limitations and he spectacularly fails even to notice he lives in a real world where people have their own lives.  
  
Mycroft gives him a tight smile, designed to halt him and make him look around.  
  
"This isn't a game, Sherlock,” he says. “It's my job."  
  
"And I hope you and your job are very happy together."  
  
Sherlock is halted just fine. But he can’t look around, not really—he has eyes for Mycroft only, for all of Sherlock’s closing them in theatrical chagrin.  
  
Mycroft reads the final few paragraphs of the document meticulously, then clicks his pen and drops both papers and pen on the floor.   
  
***  
  
Another month passes, and what with the issues around the MOD budget and that unfortunate trip to Cologne Mycroft has very little time to nourish his memories so they naturally begin to slip. Meanwhile, he hasn’t spoken to Sherlock and the only reports their mother gives Mycroft are consistent with what he expects anyway.  
  
“He says he’s bored and that he doesn’t like it there, but you know how he is…He’s just so wayward, Mycroft. He wouldn’t let anyone close.”  
  
 _Mycroft pulls away to appreciate the surrender in the body next to his._  
  
“You’re getting thinner,” he comments, because it worries him and because it’s true.  
  
“Makes one of us, then,” Sherlock replies. Naturally. He can’t help himself. The instinct to push against Mycroft is much older than the pull Mycroft has on him. In turn, Mycroft can’t help it, either—he smiles. But he needs to twist the smile’s wrist and disarm it quickly, needs to preserve the equilibrium of the other push and pull.  
  
“Very droll,” he says. “Really Sherlock, you should be on the stage.”  
  
Sherlock’s thighs have fallen open and inviting; begging, like they wouldn’t do for anyone else. There never was anyone else. Mycroft was the first. And Sherlock obviously hasn’t had anyone since he went to Oxford two months ago. Thank God. Mycroft was so scared that his brother would be his usual self once he set his foot at the new place: doing things for the sake of collecting a wide spectrum of data; seeking to underline his independence from Mycroft through every tool available to him.  
  
Mycroft also remembered what happened to him when he went to Oxford.  
  
Oh, thank God.  
  
Mycroft doesn’t care that he is being selfish. He doesn’t care that in his own world Sherlock belongs to him entirely while Mycroft is free to do as he pleases. Because it starkly contrasts with the way things really are, implacable and unspoken. He prays Sherlock still hasn’t realized it, that he is still buying the grand illusion: Mycroft substituting his own manufactured reality for the actual one and having Sherlock believe one for the other.  
  
Because yes, Sherlock’s thighs have fallen open and inviting; begging. But his is not a match to Mycroft’s desperation. Mycroft’s desperation for Sherlock transcends any physical need, surges from the darkest shadows of the deepest cave, and it places him at the mercy of his brother, who treats human emotions like bowling pins.  
  
He is also the most beautiful thing Mycroft’s ever known.  
  
He wants to kiss Sherlock, while that desperation is scraping against his own bones. He’s wanted to kiss Sherlock since the moment he saw him this morning, half-hidden at the further end of the corridor, watching as Mother greeted Mycroft with a quick welcoming hug at the front door. He wanted to kiss him throughout dinner, while Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes during the conversation. He wanted to smack Sherlock and kiss him as Sherlock demonstratively left the table during dessert after sighing and pushing his barely touched Victorian sponge in Mycroft’s direction.  
  
Mycroft will need to re-read all the papers he worked on tonight. As much as he wanted to give them his full focus, he failed. How could he, with Sherlock sprawled on the bed next to him, impatient for Mycroft’s attention, but not asking, never openly asking. Jealous, too—making wrong deductions about Jane’s real place in Mycroft’s life. Mycroft didn’t correct him. If Sherlock genuinely believes Mycroft has a serious relationship with a woman, no one would ever believe Sherlock has one with him. People are so easy to manipulate.  
  
But Sherlock’s subtle misery, thumping under his skin, delicate but unmissable like the pulse point on his neck, did make Mycroft want to kiss him more. Kiss him until every lonely night Sherlock spent in Oxford in the last two months became magically erased.  
  
He can kiss Sherlock now. Sherlock wants it, too—so obvious. But he is waiting for Mycroft to kiss him, wondering why Mycroft hasn’t, yet not rushing upwards. Waiting. His Sherlock is waiting, lips stunning and insecure, for his Mycroft to kiss him. He is so lovely, so skittishly submissive that Mycroft suddenly wishes someone lifted as much as a finger against his brother. Because then Mycroft would be able to hurt them, slowly and with flair, and have some small, inadequate outlet for this debilitating force of feeling.  
  
He and Sherlock lock gazes, all layers of illusion and delusion falling away, all games undone in their breathy, silent dénouement.  
  
Then somehow they’re finally kissing.   
  
***  
  
It’s March and the weather has been unusually mild. Not that Mycroft would take advantage of it; that would imply exercise and exertion. He is amenable to short walks, though. He even takes his lunch with him, sits on a bench and eats it, tickled with how much he must look like a normal person. He is sure no one would look twice at the slightly overweight young man—at least he’s tall—with the unremarkable features, the bland suit, and the brown paper bag. People wouldn’t notice the quality of the tailoring, or the shoes, or the contents of the salad. Or the eyes—people so rarely notice the eyes. At first glance everyone thinks he’s a nobody: harmless, almost invisible. It always amuses him greatly.  
  
The sun is falling directly into Mycroft’s lap, warming it as if a cat is curled up there.  
  
 _Sherlock, whimpering quietly and unconsciously, reaches down between his legs. Mycroft curses himself for not being ambidextrous. His right hand is obviously needed now. He’s been using it to prepare Sherlock with smooth, patient slides of his fingers—Mycroft knows that soon enough nothing will be patient between them, so he’s tried to gorge on the slow intimacy of stretching Sherlock. But now Sherlock’s touching himself, taking away what’s Mycroft’s._  
  
Mycroft’s teeth gently close around a soft, damp earlobe.  
  
“No, Sherlock.” He admonishes him, voice kind.  
  
Sherlock immediately lets go of himself, but scowls.  
  
“You do it, then.”  
  
Bossy, always so bossy.  
  
Mycroft surges and kisses his upturned face anywhere he finds, but not on the mouth, not yet—before focusing on peppering his jawline. He keeps his fingers inside, not dragging but gently scissoring in tune with his kisses, until Sherlock is squirming under his touch, lips parting wetly. Mycroft swallows.  
  
“Turn over,” he whispers. He disrobes Sherlock of his t-shirt and has him naked, completely naked at last. Mycroft reaches and carefully takes hold of Sherlock’s penis. It feels big and heavy in Mycroft’s hand, and it’s burning, too, the heat accusatory of neglect. Two months you haven’t touched me, _Sherlock’s entire body chimes, sullen and demanding like the extraordinary creature that inhabits it._  
  
Mycroft used to watch Sherlock bring himself off after they recognized that this wasn’t going away, that this was happening between them. Mycroft observed and memorized the smallest details; watched Sherlock’s delicate wrist dance with movements its choreographer was too wanton to notice. So Mycroft knows exactly how to slide the skin over the crown with a twist, how to rub the sensitive strip trailing along the underside of the shaft, how to wait for enough slickness to tease around with his thumb. He also knows when to start building a rhythm and when to let it shatter Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock is there quickly, of course, what with Mycroft sucking on his tongue, roaming his mouth. He falls apart in Mycroft’s hands and Mycroft is grateful to have Sherlock bury his face in the crook of his shoulder, because seeing his brother orgasm under his touch is never easy. Mycroft just doesn’t know what to do with himself—  
  
Mycroft has a cigarette, then another one, before heading back to the office. He still hasn’t heard from Sherlock. It’s fine. Fine.  
  
***  
  
It’s not fine, not at all, not after another month. Mycroft clings to every nuance and every detail he remembers from the last time, but is also happy when the memories arrive shapeless—sensations or feelings that quickly become less and less the messengers of memory and more and more those of fantasy.  
  
 _In Sherlock. If Mycroft was promised that he would find words to honour that feeling with an accurate description, he would give a vow of silence like a Buddhist monk. Ten years he wouldn’t utter a sound, if only the words would come to him afterwards and let him express it, true and consummate:_ in _Sherlock._  
  
Sherlock’s legs are locked around Mycroft’s middle in a gesture that is perfect halves of ownership and belonging; Sherlock’s arms are around Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft holds his brother, kisses him on the mouth as he makes love to him, and wishes that—  
  
Mycroft lifts the receiver and presses a button.  
  
“Sir?” A young woman’s voice, almost a girl’s still, speaks with a tone that suggests she was born an adult, and an efficient one.  
  
“I’ll need the car,” Mycroft says. “And call Nick. I’m going to Oxford.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by my fantastic beta [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/)**disastrolabe**. Title from the quote by Thomas Fuller: "Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart." 
> 
> The story inspired [this beautiful piece of art](queenstardust.tumblr.com/post/20353641352/here-it-is-finally-finished-as-i-said-before) by the amazing queenstardust.
> 
> Now translated in Chinese [over here](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=94141&extra=page%3D1%26filter%3Dtypeid%26typeid%3D29%26typeid%3D29) (ID:authors Password:123456789). Thanks to by hhggssll!


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